


Surety

by orphan_account



Category: Robin Hood BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those years in the Holy Land showed your master to be excellent even among nobles, but Robin's taste has always run to common people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surety

**Author's Note:**

> Set between season 1 and season 2.

It is Spring in the forest. Beyond the line of trees it is warmer, brighter, but the seasons seem to lag in here where you can still find the remains of snow drifts and ice. The air is a little colder, a little darker; the grey bones of wood burn slowly on the fire.

Towards the east sleeps John, his back set against thick tree trunks. In the north-east Will curls in towards the space between himself and Allan; Djaq has put one shoulder against the tall mossy stones that rise from the ground. Her closed eyelids are still and languid.

It is morning, and Robin is gone from his bed of cloth and leaves.

You stand and swipe the dirt from your sleeves; you consider stoking the fire so you can begin cooking breakfast. You know of at least three places Robin might be; three things that draw him away from the camp by himself. He has gone hunting.   
He has gone hunting.   
He goes hunting. 

The things he looks for are also simple and you don't particularly like to think of them: they remind you of nights in the Holy Land when you thought Robin had died and you began thinking of yourself.

> _Food;  
> Silence;  
> Affection._

It is still early. You rub your knuckles against your jaw and worry that the way they ache means rain; it makes you think of the time you stopped at a priory on the long way back to Locksley.

You ate well in that place, the priory near the river. The monks had meat and cheese stored away and the abbot had his own, carved knife to take what he wished from the platter; it was a great deal more than you expected. You have always been grateful for good food, safety, the sight of tension slipping from your master's shoulders, and that was what you had that night. You both knew it would be only a few weeks more and you would be in Sherwood, and at times you thought you could feel the change waiting for you around the next bend. Five years you had wanted to go home.

The fire had been stoked and the room was heavy with the smells of food and the silence of the monks who sat with you. The monks barely spoke; they seemed content not to. Outside the forest pressed forward, agitated by the storm, and from the torchlight you could just see the closest oak trees swaying; your imagination told you they looked gruesome and threatening. 

That night you slept on the floor alongside Robin's bed. The quietness of the monks seemed to have seeped into both of you, and by the time you remembered to say goodnight Robin was already asleep.

By morning the storm had cleared away; the sky was washed and grey, sparse water fell about the walls. You had woken alone and felt startled in that hazy, sleep-filled way, and had lain back and listened for footsteps or voices or the snick, snick of a knife fashioning arrows. Later you found Robin outside, talking to a young woman collecting green leaves from the garden. Dark drops of rain had fallen on their shoulders and they were smiling: she was guarded, he was tempting; and it was nothing you had not seen before. You watched for a time until hunger drew you to the kitchen, where you put yourself to use, rinsing dirt from vegetables and inhaling a steaming broth above the fire. It was true that even in a priory you knew your place.

For some reason this memory is important to you. 

You push stupidly at the kindling on the fire and listen to the faint sounds of birds and sleep; you consider breakfast. There is meat, left from yesterday, and some bread. Yesterday had been a good day. There was talking, voices raised by success, the bright rattle of Djaq laughing at everyone. Robin had paraded before you like a shabby rooster, sharp grin, his hands stretched wide in happiness. Two waggons robbed and six pockets full of coins, and in the midst of all the noise Robin had folded his arms and looked over at you. He tilted his head just a little and called you away.

From the priory it was eight days to Middlewood where an acquaintance of Robin's lived; _a friend_, Robin said, _or a friend's cousin; does it matter?_ The man's name was Nicolas and in the doorway of his manor he clapped Robin on the shoulder with a careless hand. Robin did the same, saying _we've journeyed far, my friend_; this was his way of asking for food and a table to sit at, perhaps some company and news.

If you dwell on it now, you can feel the discomfort of that night. Guessing rightly, Nicolas had directed you to the servant's quarters and Robin had bristled. Robin had set his jaw and closed his lips and had not looked at you at all, but you remained next to Robin all that night, your elbow and his sometimes touching beneath the covers of the bed. If it was cold outside you did not know it. Together you left at dawn, as redness spread through the clouds above you, and neither of you spoke about it but you walked into that morning feeling as sure as you have ever had the right to feel.

Above you now the day is just beginning to reach the forest canopy. You leave the fire and go to the stream, not far from where your friends' bodies mark out the camp. Soon everyone will wake and will want to eat and hear from Robin what the day holds. The stream runs swiftly, the cold biting at your hands as you wipe them dry on your cloak. Your fingers catch at the fraying threads - you have had it since you left Cyprus, since you discarded your surcoat of red, since you began the long way back to Locksley. Beneath the cloak you are wearing Robin's vest.

It is clear to you that Nicolas of Middlewood got one thing right and one thing wrong. Those years in the Holy Land showed your master to be excellent even among nobles, but Robin's taste has always run to common people. Lady Marion is the one, surprising exception. You have come to believe that it is common people - the millers, the farmers, those who have no occupation at all - who are able to love Robin as he wishes to be loved: because he is greater than them, because he needs it. Yesterday he called you away and so yesterday you followed him, and deep in the trees you had lain your fingers over the skin bared between neckcloth and shirt and found it warm as it ever was.

Now the morning is wearing on. The fields will soon be bright with it. Somewhere Robin may be making his way home. At the stream you fill three flasks and watch mist drifting between birches. You rise from the ground and take the water back to the camp, and as you walk you sing.


End file.
